Engraved In Eternity
by ink obsessed
Summary: Ginny became a lifeless, meaningless creature without Tom. When she finally finds Him again, she finds that twisted wholeness she had wanted for so long. Through a series of complicated events, it turns out that Draco Malfoy is the only one who can save
1. Chapter 1: Hope Reborn

A/N 1: hello to all my fellow fanfiction addicts! I've finally built up the courage to write another fanfic *cheers* because of all my amazing reviewers on Mutual Healing (which is far from finished, so keep reading.)

I gotta be honest though; as much as I wish this story was mine; it's not. I'm writing it, yea, but the idea is way too incredible to be mine. This story was the brainchild of OffWhite, an amazingly creative and talented ff.netter and fellow DM/GW shipper that chose me *blushes, flattered* after reading my other story, Mutual Healing. I give her whole and total credit; the entire idea is hers; I am simply the vessel. (ain't she amazing?!)

We welcome reviews and any other critical advice you might have =) Let us know what you think.

~ angelic fire, care of OffWhite

A/N 2:

Lysols ands Germs- ha! jk ladies and gents who are my fellow fanfiction readers. As flattered as i am by Angelic Fire's complements about my partake in the following story she is actually a little mixed up. We all know her incredible skill as a writer but it seems that sadly our dear friend is utterly confused in the head. She cant shake the idea that this story is all me. As much as i would like that, I cant say it is true. All i did was plant the seed into her head and she came up with this huge chapter and whole story plan. They just grew out of her head and blossomed into this "masterpiece" (i'm quoting myself but thats ok)....As a final note, remember that as you read this- the one true author is and always will be Angelic Fire. 

-OffWhite 

A/N 3: 

Don't listen to a word she says. She thinks she can mask her coolness by arguing with me. Ha. I control what goes in the author notes, so I can add my own final note at the end, saying that she's cooler. So, OffWhite is the truly creative one among us. Read on with that thought. =)

~ angelic fire

Title: Engraved In Eternity

Summary: Ginny became a lifeless, meaningless creature without Tom. When she finally finds Him again, she finds that twisted wholeness she had wanted for so long, but also sets off a domino effect of evil in the present world. Lucius Malfoy and his rebellious son are of course part of that domino effect, and through an unpredictable turn of events, Draco Malfoy himself turns out to be the only one who can save her from Tom.

Rating: R, for language, violence, angst, sex, etc. Mainly just to cover my butt so I don't get sued, I don't have any money (and I really doubt OffWhite will be willing to pay for my mistakes, hehe)

Disclaimer: If you don't know by now that J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, there is no hope for you.

Chapter 1 – Hope Reborn 

__

The rough leather ran over her trembling fingers like moisture on dry and cracking hands, hands that had been deprived of their lifeblood for far too long. Her pale, slender fingers lay in quiet but stark contrast against the dark, timeless binding of the powerful and ominous volume. Her heavy auburn lashes fluttered shut in relief, and she drew a long breath, absorbing the life within the book that she had been without for so very long.

Ginny opened her eyes and pulled the book tightly to her chest, relishing the pulsating power and assurance emanating from it, the lure and beauty of her first love. Her breath quickened and she could feel her temperature rise as she pulled out her wand and began to do what she was created to do – to reunite herself with this presence that never left her but was always so far away. A deep, insatiable thirst screamed victoriously inside her as she mumbled the first few words of the charm.

*~*~*

Only three days ago, Virginia Weasley had meekly stepped into a spacious conference room on one of the uppermost, dryest floors of the Ministry of Magic. Her father was wearing his best suit, and she was attired in her modest Sunday dress and patent leather shoes – in all honesty, she had felt suffocated and immature after all the fussing and primping her mother had put her through that moring.

She watched as her father nervously adjusted his tie and sent strained smiles to his bosses and superiors, who were waving and chatting amicably amongst themselves. Ginny couldn't help a small smile at her dad's happiness and agitation – it was, after all, his first step into the higher levels of Muggle Relations. He was living his dream.

But as he began to live his dream that day his little girl was a little left out. She had been brought along as a trophy, and after a few soft smiles and introductions, the demure 16 year old was ushered away from the meeting and dumped unceremoniously into the care of a rather deaf but very well-meaning senior executive. The old wizard paced slowly down the corridors, twiddling his old thumbs behind his back and rambling in a lovable but boring fashion and rambling on about the history of Magical England and magic in general. Every now and then he would pause and pull out a long watch on a beautiful gold chain and remind Ginny that the watch was an heirloom given to him by his great-grandfather. After an hour and a half, she had heard the story four times.

Yet still, her father's meeting was not finished. The old wizard had slowly made his way to the lower levels of the Ministry now, and for the first time in hours Ginny's interest was provoked. Rooms upon rooms of dark, cryptic and esoteric objects to be uncharmed, demystified and figured out lay to either side of her, and she itched to explore them and touch every one of them. The power of the unknown had always called to her, and deep beneath the ministry that day she had felt it particularly clearly.

Of course, she had not been permitted to touch anything. Not that the old coot would have even noticed if she had.

But there was _one_ object she simply couldn't pass up.

The instant she saw it, she knew it was the key to everything this world had to offer for her.

Lying on its side, as if carelessly tossed away into the shadowy corner of that one isolated table, was a golden time-turner, glittering innocently in the dim candlelight. Ginny could feel her caramel eyes widening in hungry desire at the promise such a thing could offer her. Spinning around, her long red curls flung wildly in her face as she uninterrupted her guide mid babble to inquire what that "pretty little gold thing was." She had gotten very good at masking her intentions with the shy, staid Ginny Weasley everyone thought they knew … but really didn't.

The old man's eyes sparkled, and he ambled over to the tiny amulet and ran his wrinkled fingers over its soft contours before launching into another long dissertation on the history of such devices. Ginny wrinkled her nose in impatience – she knew what a time turner was. Her best friend, Hermione Granger, had used one nearly all through secondary school at Hogwarts. But she didn't care about that. If she could somehow pry the thing from the old wizard, borrow it, say … maybe if only for a day … she could accomplish everything she had been searching for the past six years. Her heart leaped at the thoughts of touching that old happiness, the only true acceptance she had ever experienced. It was hypnotizing, seductive, alluring, powerful. It was twisted, it was evil. But it was hers; it had been hers once. It was the Diary. It was Tom.

He scared her, enthralled her, captivated her and doted on her. He had accepted _Virginia,_ not Ron's little sister or Molly and Arthur's quiet daughter. He had known _Virginia_, and she had known him. Those few blissful months, before everything had gone so horribly wrong, had been both the most joyous and the most terrifying months of her life. And all she could think about since was how much she wanted that back.

A few charming smiles and deft slips of the hand later, the bright mini-hourglass was dangling on a silver link chain and hidden in her bosom. The time-turner had been all too easy to steal. A triumphant smirk crept over her face as she kindly thanked the oblivious old man for his time and sped from the dungeons, leaving him to chortle about what an enchanting young girl she was.

But the old warlock faded into the distance, a distant memory of time forgotten, and her awareness was consumed with possibility and hope. For six years He had been her living, breathing, but dying breath. And now she would finally have Him again. The sweet, soft edges of her lacy muslin dress brushed her knees, a biting paradox of the demure beauty everyone knew to the dangerous siren only Tom had known. A desperate bubbling of unreleased, cached passion and fury rose inside her, demanding audience and acceptance.

With a saccharine smile and preciously polite request, she pleaded fatigue and flooed home before her father was done with his meeting. She couldn't wait a moment longer. 

Within minutes she was sprawled in the center of her bedroom floor, dust billowing from her seldom-used fireplace. Delicious scents of the famous Weasley cookies wafted through her floorboards, and sounds of her older brothers exploding something in the next room reached her sensitive ears. But it all retreated from her perception as everything she had ever wanted and everything she had been forced to become focused on the small golden hourglass. 

Her fingers quivered as she held the talisman before her, and she swallowed hard. This was what she wanted, she convinced herself. Tom was the only one who knew her. The only one who understood. He was scary, but that was what made Him so fascinating. His unpredictability was everything she had never had, the seventh child in a plain wizarding family. He held so much promise for her. _Yes,_ she thought firmly. _This is what I want._

Throwing a final glance to the freshly bound diary she had bought at Flourish & Botts the other day, she tucked a lock of crimson fire behind her ear and turned the charm three times, murmuring the time-turning spell in the smallest room of the Burrow on that warm, bright July afternoon.

Almost immediately she could sense a veritable ball of power and energy form in her chest, and she focused all of her might on directing it. In a sudden swirl of lost emotions and bitter memories, she fell to the cold stone floor of the Chamber. The floor of realization.

Ginny stood up slowly, her shaking hands steadying themselves on the harsh stone edifice next to her. She was draped in shadow, observing the scene that had haunted her for so many years.

As if a ghost, she saw a younger, eager version of herself fainted away at Tom's feet. Harry was standing triumphant over the basilisk nearby, and was too preoccupied to notice her, as always. In a single breath of horrified remembrance, she caught Tom's glance. He was dying, emitting one final scream as he faded from tangible existence into the air all around her. His eyes bore into hers, challenging her, begging her, demanding her. He knew, way back six years ago, that she would never forget. Her chest swelled with an indescribable feeling of love and acceptance – He needed her like she needed Him. And she had come back for Him now.

In all her nightmares and frightening reminiscences, there was only one part Ginny had never been able to fully piece together. There was a moment on that horrible, devastating night where she had stirred from her weakened sleep and briefly glimpsed a shadowy figure, standing over her in pure hypnosis of her Guardian who was dying above her. That moment had been the worst of her life, knowing that Tom and all hope of ambition and devotion was leaving her forever – and being bewildered by that unknown figure in the shadows.

Now, six years later, as Ginny stood in the shadows over her former self in pure hypnosis of her former Guardian, she realized who that dark beacon of mystery was – it was her. 

Unconsciously, she reached for Tom as he evaporated into the air. She stifled a cry, promptly disappearing into the darkness as Harry spun around quickly. Disappearing. It was something she had become quite good at these last few years.

And so she lay there, huddling in fear and anticipation of what she was going to do and ominous remembrance of those long lost times of fascination and happiness she had experienced in her first year at Hogwarts. She waited and watched as Harry stooped to pick up the little Ginny and carry her away. She knew what would happen next – they would brainwash her, lock her up in the hospital for weeks, tell her it was going to be all right when they would never understand how wrong it would always be.

When they had finally gone, the older Ginny materialized from the gloom surrounding the statues and stole quietly across the floor to the forgotten diary, sundered in ignorant fury by heroes who had no concept of what they were 'saving.' Silent tears fell down her cheeks as she gently lifted the dying diary into her arms, dropping a lookalike to the floor. Bitterly, she thought of the hours she had spent preparing the counterfeit, recreating Tom's diary from her memory so that Harry would have his damn trophy to parade around later to Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy. She gingerly pulled the basilisk fang out of the real diary, out of Tom, out of her heart, and plunged it into the fake one with an unexplained vengeance. 

Virginia backed away; nausea building in her throat. Her small feet tripped over the enormous basilisk, and a pulse of Tom, a fleeting oscillation of power and love rippled through her nerves at its touch. In fear, she stumbled backwards into the shadows and spun the time-turner as fast as she could.

And then as if nothing had ever happened, she found herself once again stretched face down on the floor of the Burrow, happy music and smells filling her senses, serving as an unbearable reminder of the searing false reality she was forced to live every day without Him.

*~*~*

The rough leather ran over her trembling fingers like moisture on dry and cracking hands, hands that had been deprived of their lifeblood for far too long. Her pale, slender fingers lay in quiet but stark contrast against the dark, timeless binding of the powerful and ominous volume. Her heavy auburn lashes fluttered shut in relief, and she drew a long breath, absorbing the life within the book that she had been without for so very long.

Ginny opened her eyes and pulled the book tightly to her chest, relishing the pulsating power and assurance emanating from it, the lure and beauty of her first love. Her breath quickened and she could feel her temperature rise as she pulled out her wand and began to do what she was created to do – to reunite herself with this presence that never left her but was always so far away. A deep, insatiable thirst screamed victoriously inside her as she mumbled the first few words of the charm.

It had taken her years to learn the charm. It was said to be one of the most complicated in the history of magic – transplanting a human soul from one medium to another. 

"_Umbra Alio,_

Animus transfero.

Umbra … phasmatis … morphus!"

As she mouthed the last word of the incantation, her breath grew ragged with exhaustion, and she was suddenly overcome by … Tom.

He filled her, surrounded her, engulfed her. And for a moment, she never wanted it to end. She felt so safe; so accepted. For as long as He was pleased with her, she could be content.

But the moment couldn't last. Summoning all her strength, she pushed His lifeforce out of her and into the new diary. 

She gasped for breath as his soul left her, falling to the floor choking and sobbing. She would never be that fulfilled on her own – she was nothing without him. 

After a few minutes, she struggled back to a sitting position, fumbling for her wand. The old diary, without even a dying Tom's life to sustain it, was slowly crumbling. She watched the pages fade a jaundiced yellow, and in a chilling realization noticed it was just like her without Tom. Useless, weak, invisible.

But not anymore.

She had successfully called Him out of the old diary and into the new one, using herself as a vessel. He had been dying, frail, a mere breath of existence, and she had been able to restore Him. For six years He had been all around her in virtual strength, and now He would be in her in real strength. She would never have to be weak again … she was strong in Him. She was His again. She sighed, salty drops of relief flowing like rivers down her fairy-dusted cheeks.

In one harsh gesture, she set the ancient diary on fire. _Never again will I lose You._

It was gone, without even a blackened ash to speak of, within seconds.

Ginny dusted her hands genteely and pushed herself onto her bed, gathering the new diary into her lap. Only an hour before it had been worthless, a pretty, crisp new notebook from a plain bookshopon Diagon Alley. But nothing took on Tom without changing. She could already feel the power flowing from it, and she couldn't help a small smile as she realized he was changing the pastel blue cover into his favourite colour – Slytherin green.

She remembered with festering anger all the times she had been told the diary was just charmed, that He wasn't real, just a ghost she wanted to believe in. If only they could see Him now.

Tom was no ghost. He was real, He was dangerous, He was scary, He was unforgettable. He was her. She was nothing without Him. Frightening, but necessary. Here eyes filled with tears again as her old self tried to come to grips with the new girl Tom had created in her. It was impossible.

Gingerly, she reached for her quill. It was _His_ quill. The one He had given her. The one she had first written to Him with. Of course she had not thrown it away.

She opened the cover, which was now swirling with shades of hunter and emerald green. She let her pale fingers smooth open the first sheet, drinking in His aura and the new strength He had in His new home. In her.

Shuddering in long-awaited expectancy, Ginny let her quill touch the fresh new parchment, and watched absently as the ink flowed into the paper and absorbed her into it.

"Hello, Tom."


	2. Chapter 2: The Voice Of Power

A/N: Ok, here's my update.  I'm updating this one before Mutual Healing and Metamorphosis, under threat of angry reviewers, hopefully incenting more people to read this one.  It's really good, I swear! And the plot will speed up after this.  I just had to introduce our two torn lovers (even if they don't know it yet).  Anyhow, kudos once again to Offwhite and her amazing plot.  Nothing would be possible without her.

Thanks to Sarklover, bethany wood, and Kjata.  Read on!

**Chapter 2 - The Voice of Power**

"You fucking bastard.  You weak, perverted bastard."  The young man's lips curled into a disgusted sneer.

            Across the cold, ornate room, his father leaned lazily on an antique silver table and let out a sadistic laugh.  "Weak? Weak, Draco?  I am the only, merciful force standing between you and the harsh reality outside of our Lord's blessing.  I wield more power than you've ever even tasted, and that's saying a lot."  His countenance suddenly darkened from its former sarcastic gleam.  "Don't you _ever_ call me weak.  I have purged everything weak from my life, just as I have taught you to do."

            Draco stood rigidly, his back straight and his shoulders thrust back, taking deep breaths to restrain himself from ripping the lies out of his father's throat.  He could feel the anger welling inside of him, seeping towards the surface and begging for escape.  Funny how the only thing keeping it from overcoming him was his father's training.  _Never show emotion_.  _Weak.__  Pathetic._

            _Who's the fucking pathetic one now?_

            Lucius shifted his weight easily and began to stroll towards the window, smoothly picking up a shot glass from a floating tray.  "And if you become a weakness, Draco, I will have no choice but to do the same to you.  Only the strong survive in this game."  The man turned back to his son, his cold, hollow eyes suddenly rushing to Draco's, even though he was standing nearly thirty feet away.  "I thought you were strong."

            The red-hot flames of anger boiled over and Draco dug his nails into the pale skin of his fists as he exploded.  "You thought _I_ was strong?  Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, that's great father."  A humourless, dark laugh escaped from his young mouth, and his eyes darkened dangerously, a mirror image of his father's only moments ago.  "Because I am.  You're the weak one, you mindless prick.  You've spent your entire goddamn life serving a seventy year old man that barely even has a body of his own!  Ambition?  Strength?  Power?  Looks to me like you've taken the fucking easy way out.  You'd sacrifice anything for him, or rather, anything to stay on his good side.  If that's not weak, what the fuck is?"  Draco didn't even realize he was screaming.

            Lucius Malfoy's neck bulged in a grotesque array of purple veins as the anger that had gone unchecked and unchastised for so long manifested itself yet again.  In one swift movement he was at his son's throat, his face inches away from the boy's, his hot breath drowning Draco's air supply, his golden hair framing his face in a way that gave him a twisted, angelic appearance.  The ultimate perversion.

            His father's strong fingers tightened around Draco's neck, and he wondered for the umpteenth time why he didn't resist.

            "You will submit to our Lord.  It's your destiny.  Power is what you make of it.  This your chance.  Don't blow it, Draco Malfoy.  You know what will happen if you do."

            And with that, the demon disapparated downstairs, back to the Death Eater gala raging in the East Wing parlours, leaving his son to massage the bruises on his neck and curse everyone in the world from Voldemort to Lucius Malfoy to Harry Potter. 

            His icy, frozen eyes ravaged the room, searching for something he had been looking for as long as he could remember, but had never found.  He hurled himself wildly at the floating tray, smashing the decanter and its contents to the floor in a mess of priceless crystal and alcohol. 

            He ran down the long halls to his rooms, expending as much of the pent up wrath and passion as was possible.  Upon reaching his summer bedroom, he collapsed against the door in a weary gesture of defeat, leaning his forehead against its aloof dignity.

            After a few slow breaths, he slowly straightened back up and ran a hand through his disheveled blond hair.  It fell in messy pieces before his eyes, yet another barrier to any and every dream he had ever dreamt in his deranged world.

            He could hear the Death Eaters at the other end of the house, screaming in ecstasy and torture, some laughing, some probably dying, all at once.  The utter perversion and stupidity hit him with a full force yet again.  Mindless, idiotic pawns in a game whose puppeteer had passed his prime years ago.  The world was ripe for the picking.  The time was perfect.  Voldemort was becoming the very thing he taught all of his followers to fear with their lives – weak.  He became more and more dependent each day, and it seemed that only Draco was able to see through the contorted prevarications and lies to the truth. 

            And Draco was hungry for that truth.  The power that the truth offered.

            He was born for this.  The power of the unknown, of the dark and diablerie drew him like a vulture to a fresh kill.  It obsessed him.  It always had.  He knew he was made for great things, designed for a destiny that so far surpassed his father's petty accomplishments that the world would only be able to stand by in shock as his iron force swept wizard and muggle-kind alike.

            His mind was a brilliant caucophony of shrewd and perfect intelligence.  He was capable.  So capable.

            And it was all he wanted.  So little stood in his way.  Why did he hold back?

            The power tugged at him …

            He stumbled back to a settee, falling into the Slytherin green depths as his eyes closed in an inner struggle of diminutive ethic against rash gluttony.

            The pale lids sprung open within moments, however, at the memories of his father's recent assault.  Angrily, he fingered the marks left on his aristocratic neck.  The bastard had left a fucking mark.    
            _No one should be able to mark me and get away with it._

            A low growl escaped his throat.  "Power is what you make of it," he had said.  Dumbfuck.  Lucius was one hundred percent right.  And Draco had every intention of fashioning a power that would leave the world staggering in shock.  _Lucius's_ power, however … that was not a power that he had made.  He was a coward, a puppet with no balls whatsoever that groveled at Voldemort's feet at the slightest inference of offense.  Everything his father had ever taught him or made him read laughed bitterly in the background of his mind, mocking the hypocrisy that had raised him. 

            He had no choice but to believe the ideals that had been instilled in him since he before he could walk.  His only option, therefore, was that the one who had passed on these ideals was a weak loser, a worthless underling that had failed to practice his own teachings and had been consumed by one who had learnt them better.

            It sickened Draco.  It almost triggered his gag reflex.  There were no words to describe the disgust and abhorrence one develops when one learns that they have lived a decieved insincerity their entire lives.

            Draco refused accept.  He refused to bow down.  He wouldn't be shoved aside, or welcomed into a society of weaklings.  He had been taught to never blindly conform, and he wouldn't start now, even if it was his teachers who were asking him to do so.

            _I hate you, Lucius._

_            I hate you for being a wimp._

_            I hate you for hating me._

_            I hate your fucking guts._

Draco rose to his feet and covered the space between the settee and window in a matter of moments.  He shoved open the windows and inhaled the crisp, midsummer-night air.  A slight breeze jumped through the window and laughed happily as it ruffled his hair and whispered in his ear.  The winds of change.

            In that moment, Draco consciously resolved to never back down again.  He would have this world, and he would grip it with a force of unparalleled power and strength.  The name of Voldemort would be a forgotten history text book name by the time Draco Malfoy was finished.  He would never submit.  To anyone.

            Suddenly, the voice of the wind became the voice of the power.  The voice of … that… thing, that elusive idea that he could never quite grasp or understand.  It lured him, nagged at him, and ate away his very soul.  In power, he was sure he would find it. 

            An especially loud scream found its way to his chambers, and in one swift, annoyed move, he spun around, silenced the room and locked the door.   

            All in good time.  Power is what you make of it.  All in good time.


End file.
